Delusions of Perfection
by ChromaticDreams
Summary: Ford comes across a distressed, frustrated Pacifica and discovers they both may have more in common than he originally thought.


**AN- I've never seen any Ford and Pacifica bonding fics, and that is a crime. Thus, here you are. For your pleasure and perusal, a what-if scenario.**

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Ford exited the kitchen with a glass of tap water, and was about to head up the stairs when he heard hushed noises of frustration coming from the TV room. His brow furrowed as he listened closer. That didn't sound like Mabel… If Mabel were frustrated, he'd be hearing dramatic groans that wouldn't sound out of place in a Shakespearean death scene. _In fact, with her stunningly vast imagination and attention to detail, the role of actor is likely one she'd excel in,_ he thought, a small smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

Slowly and discretely, he stepped closer to the entryway of the next room and peered in, just to make sure everyone was safe and well. A small figure sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the far wall, her long blonde hair pooling down her back in loose curls. A couple of thick tomes sat open before her.

 _Ah, right,_ he realized, memories of an earlier conversation with his great niece springing to his mind. _Mabel invited that young Northwest girl over for a sleepover._

What this new knowledge still didn't explain, however, was why she hunched over those textbooks as if she were a mannequin whose strings had been cut. Her hair appeared stressed and frazzled around the scalp, as if she'd been pulling at it recently. And while Ford hadn't spoken more than a sentence of greetings to the girl in the entire time he'd been aware of her existence, his heart ached for her. He recognized these symptoms, symptoms of scholastic stress and familial duty. He _lived_ these symptoms, and not only within the constraints of his childhood. As someone who nearly was smothered by this same hell, Stanford Pines felt he held a duty to do something... to offer _some_ encouraging words, at the very least.

The greying man rapped each of his fingers against the doorframe and quietly cleared his throat.

"A-Are you doing all right?" he asked cautiously.

Her hair spun around like a deadly studded whip the moment he spoke. "Yeah, I'm absolutely **_peachy_**!" she growled.

Ford froze, thoroughly discouraged at her angered tone, and was about to skitter up the stairs with his glass of water when he heard her speak again. More quiet, this time. _Meekly_.

"Sorry, Mr. Pines."

The older man paused, left foot already on the first stair. He backtracked to the doorframe and peered in. The young girl's face burnt red with shame, and she wrung her hands tightly in front of her.

"I'm sorry," she repeated in a whisper, looking as if she wished to melt into the very floor she sat on. Her head was bowed, her spine stiffened. Expectant. Terrified.

Ford realized with horror that she likely feared he intended to punish her for her outburst. His mouth curved into a frown at this revelation, the creases and lines bequeathed to him by old age deepening. Sure, Stanley mentioned the Northwest parents' stupidity on occasion- and he overheard rumors that Preston Northwest attempted to buy weirdness bonds, of all things, in the Unpleasantness last summer-but he never considered the possibility that they abused their role as parents.

"No, no, it's okay," he said quickly, in as gentle a voice as he could manage. "I understand you're frustrated. There's no need to feel shame for releasing emotions that are only human."

"How do you think _you_ know what I'm feeling?" the blonde girl asked, glancing up slightly with glassy eyes. "I- no offense, and all." She caught a strand of her hair and began to spin it in between her fingers. "I just kinda... assumed I was being quiet about it for once."

That was all it took. Memories of stressful all-nighters he didn't want to make and harsh parental punishments rang through his mind as Ford crossed into the TV room and stood in front of the hideous, yellowed, beaten-up sofa. He wanted to talk with this girl, help her work through whatever was stressing her. His heart burned at the thought that her parents were throwing her through a similar childhood experience that he'd suffered through.

"Pacifica, isn't it?" The girl nodded. "Pacifica, would it be all right if I sat here with you for a moment?" Another nod, this time more fervent. He glanced towards the sofa for only a brief moment before shaking his head and lowering himself to the carpet alongside the girl instead. He placed his glass of water on the side table. The baffled expression she threw at him was rather curious, ( _and rather telling_ ), as if she simply couldn't imagine an individual of his size and strength sitting on her level, entirely docile with each leg folded over the other.

The two sat in peaceful silence for a while, listening to the ticking second hand of the dining room clock. Quite a mesmerizing sound in Ford's opinion. Back in the eighties— well, when he was far younger and a great deal less sane… the rhythmic lull of the old grandfather clock he used to own is often what kept him from reaching his breaking point. It kept him grounded.

He once more noted the three thick books surrounding the girl, and— despite his usual lack of forte when it came to handling emotionally charged situations— leapt in with both feet.

"School troubles?"

Pacifica gestured stiffly towards the open textbook directly in front of her. "Mmm-hmm. Advanced calculus."

Ford bristled as he scanned the two pages, immediately recognizing the brand of intimidating integration problems that took him all of sophomore year to gain a firm grasp on. But Pacifica was… what, thirteen years old? Fourteen? Hasn't yet entered high school? And these were college textbooks!

He netted his brows in confusion. "And this is _summer_ study?"

"I have to prep for entry exams," she said, the frustration evident in the stress lines under her eyes. "My parents are sending me to a boarding school in Europe for the next four years, a-and…"

Ford watched as the girl suddenly balled her hands into fists and hastily wiped away any potential evidence of tears. Seeing this, his mind instantly travelled decades into the recesses of childhood memory, to a time where expressing emotion equaled weakness and pent-up anger swelled inside him until he felt he might cripple under the boiling sensation. His jaw tightened slightly.

"-and I'm really excited to go, honestly, I am," she continued, her voice sounding thicker as she tried not to cry. "But the exams are in a few weeks, and I have no time, and I _know_ I'm not gonna pass them. I know I'm not."

"But you're spending extra time studying right now, aren't you?"

"It's no-"

"It seems to me you're right on track," Ford went on before Pacifica could utter another word. He clasped his hands together, trying to recall any good stress relieving tactics from his youth. "Maybe… maybe what would help you feel better right now is a break from your studies. In fact, I remember a handful of old meditation tactics that helped me relax as a kid, a-"

"You're not listening to me! I already said I don't have _time_ for that, it's in two and a half weeks!" the girl exclaimed, yanking harshly at a thick ringlet of hair.

The words on the older man's tongue died before they could escape. Looking at this young woman was like gazing through a mirror into the recesses of memory. Memories of his brother as a young teen, grabbing tight fistfuls of his short cropped hair as he vented his frustrations to the non-judging universe. Out of the pair of them, Stanley was always the more emotional spirit.

Of course, when Stan became frustrated to the point of anger he felt most comfortable simply giving him space…

Ford slowly rose on his haunches. "W-would you prefer it if I left you alone for a while?"

Much like the local gargoyles, Pacifica's face hardened into stone. "Fine, whatever. Do whatever you want. I already know I'm awful," she said, words clipped and tone emotionless.

"Now Pacifica, I never said you we-"

"God, why was I even complaining to you about this in the first place? Uhh, I feel so stupid!"

"Pacifi-"

"Why would _anyone_ ever care to hear some bratty, stuck up rich girl complain about her oh-so-perfect life?"

" _Listen_ , you're no-"

"And why do I always have to get so damn _emotional_ about my stupid problems?!" she burst out abruptly, features scrunched up and tears pooling up at the corners of her eyes. "W-w-why can't I just-" A sob punctuated her words. "I-I just want my parents to be proud of me for once, but it feels like nothing I do will ever be enough!"

She buried her head in her arms and began to cry.

Ford watched the scene evolve before him, entirely unsure what actions he should take. He never received a doctorate in psychology or empathy or _how to comfort others when they were in tears_. He's a man of science and logic. His intelligence lies solidly in the realm of the physical. The complexity, subtlety, and double meaning present in everyday conversation seemed more alien to him than any of the strange dimensions he'd visited. His eyes flicked back and forth between Pacifica and the doorway.

 _God, what do I DO?_

 _Well… for starters, I suppose I might narrow my options by asking myself what I **shouldn't** do._

The first time Mabel cried in front of him he attempted to calm her down by logically listing all the reasons she had to be happy, but only succeeded in pushing her further into "sweater town." The last time he witnessed his brother cry he left for the ship's cabin when Stan claimed he was "just fine," which inadvertently kick started an awful week of arguments and miscommunication.

And then he remembered…

 _Three and a half months ago_. Stanley said he'd grabbed a pint too many at some rundown seaport pub, and returned to the ship weeping incoherently about a troubling memory of his inter-dimensional years that— looking back on the incident now— he couldn't fathom to recall. These recollections were fuzzy of course, but he didn't think he could _ever_ forget the way his brother silently embraced him, rubbing gentle circles in his back as he drunkenly sobbed into his shoulder. He didn't judge him. He didn't correct him. He didn't leave when he needed him most.

He just… loved. Compassionately. Unconditionally.

Instinctively, Ford opened his arms as an offer of embrace to the young girl, desperately hoping that this action wouldn't muck the situation up any more or cross some sort of invisible line again.

Pacifica wiped at the tears streaming in rivers down her cheek. She gazed at him hesitantly, most likely feeling a crushing sense of self-consciousness over crying in front of a near stranger if Ford's own personal experiences held any clout to reality. Then suddenly, she threw herself into his arms, nestling her chin in the crook of his neck. He felt her small hands cling to the thick fabric of his sweater. The young girl's breath was punctuated by heavy sobs. He allowed himself to wrap his arms tight around her in response, just like he hugged his own niece and nephew— one hand lightly stroking the back of her head and the other pressed firmly against her left shoulder.

He held her for almost five minutes— silently— as she let her volatile emotions play out.

"I'm actually kinda glad Mabel didn't have to see me like this," she whispered, once she calmed down and ended the embrace. "I'd be so embarrassed."

Ford's brow rose. "Where has Mabel gone to, by the way? I meant to ask."

"She's outside with Waddles. Said he seemed sick, and that she wanted him taking care of things in the grass instead of dirtying your floors, or whatever. Originally, I thought if I stayed behind and studied for a few minutes, that maybe..."

Pacifica scowled at the long forgotten calculus textbook thrown aside on the floor and sighed.

"I dunno," she said, and shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should just take a long break from all of this. There's no point in deluding myself anymore. I'm awful at math! I always have been. I can't even look at simple algebra without all the equations _swimming_ around on the page! I honestly think I may have number dyslexia, or something. But as a Northwest, society expects me to be clever, and responsible, and intelligent, and-"

"Perfect," Ford interjected suddenly, realization brightening his eyes. "Society expects perfection where none can humanly be attained."

Pacifica's mouth remained agape, that very word obviously hanging unspoken at the edge of her mind. She swallowed suddenly, and stared down at her hands. "Oh. I guess you actually do understand. I- Mr. Pines, I really am sorry, okay? For before. The yelling, and all..."

"It's okay," he said, a soft smile lifting his cheeks. "No apology needed. I'm aware none of it was directed towards me."

"Please don't treat me like glass just because I'm upset. I honestly feel like I've been rude to you, and I want to make right on that."

"All right. Then, I forgive you."

For the first time that day, the girl's gaze was constant and unyielding. "Thank you, Mr. Pines."

"Please, just call me Ford, dear," he said with a slight chuckle, emphasizing the crinkles around his eyes. "There's too many Mr. Pineses in this household, I'm afraid."

"Um, are you sure? Because I-"

"One hundred percent. And... if you do decide you want to go on break from your studies, my previous offer of teaching you some old mindfulness techniques is still on the table."

The hints of a smile appeared at Pacifica's lips then, considerably softening her features.

"I think that'd help a lot..."


End file.
